


Baby, It's Cold Outside

by adjectivebear (HealerAriel)



Category: Sleepy Hollow (TV)
Genre: Domestic Fluff, Established Relationship, F/M, I apologize for nothing, the S3 finale never happened and you can't tell me otherwise, two kids being adorable and in love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-24
Updated: 2016-12-24
Packaged: 2018-09-11 18:26:17
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 674
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9001567
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HealerAriel/pseuds/adjectivebear
Summary: Pure, unadulterated, canon-divergent Christmas fluff for @nathyfaith‘s Ichabbie Holidays event. Merry Ichabbie Holidays to all, and to all a good night!





	

**  
  
**Though still a tad disorienting, it is nonetheless fascinating to Ichabod how Christmas traditions have evolved since his time. It is still a seasonal affair, though the time frame has been altered to span the weeks preceding Christmas Day rather than those after. The celebration itself has been pared down considerably, the other holy days in the Advent season done away with and the festivities markedly more secular in nature, yet simultaneously far more ostentatious in execution. **  
**

Even if the means to do so had existed in his day, the act of festooning the exterior of one’s home with strings of colored lights would have been frowned upon. Now it seems to be just short of a requirement, with a handful of their neighbors actively competing with one another as to who can produce the most garish display. As of last week, the frontrunner appears to be the middle-aged couple across the street who’ve transformed their front lawn into a brightly-lit replica of the frozen tundra, complete with artificial reindeer, a large spinning pole, and a life-sized figure of Father Christmas, who is now portrayed as an overweight elderly gentleman who brings toys to children on Christmas Eve.

It really is terribly gauche, Ichabod thinks, closing the living room drapes against the display.

Apart from those neighbors intent to overdo it, however, the modern emphasis on seasonal decor isn’t all bad; indeed, Ichabod has grown rather fond of Christmas trees. True, he did turn his nose up at first when Abbie’s _Googling_ revealed that the concept had been introduced by the Hessians, but once they had actually gotten the thing set up, he had to admit that it was quite lovely to look at and the crisp, earthy scent of pine throughout their home was delightful.

More delightfully still, pine is not the only scent currently permeating the house: Abbie, it turns out, is a masterful baker of cookies. How _this_ became a Christmas tradition the Internet could not explain, but far be it from Ichabod to complain about a profusion of sweets suddenly becoming available in the kitchen.

The aroma of partially-melted chocolate chips wafts through the air as Abbie transfers a finished batch onto a cooling rack, singing along as she works to the female vocals of a song on the radio in which the fellow with whom a lady has been socializing importunes her to spend the night, citing the inclement weather.

Ichabod embraces her from behind, his heart leaping giddily as she leans back against his chest. It has been just shy of a month since they began their courtship, and he can scarcely believe that he may finally hold this heavenly creature in his arms. Whatever tribulations lay ahead, it is a good and merciful fate indeed that would have him weather them at her side.

“A perfect scoundrel,” he says, as the singer once again rebuts his guest’s attempt to leave.

“You don’t think she secretly wants to stay?”

“Irrelevant. The lady has given her refusal. A gentleman would pursue the issue no further and see her safely home.”

“That’s what Ichabod Crane did when the girls turned him down?”

“Indeed I would have,” Ichabod says sincerely. “Although, in truth, I cannot recall an occasion on which the lady’s companionship was not freely offered well before I’d a mind to ask.”

Abbie laughs. “I’m pretty confident that at least half your sex stories are wild exaggerations,” she says, twisting her head about to kiss his chin.

“You will never know,” he says, maneuvering to claim her glorious lips. This, too, he cannot believe that he may finally do, and he is eternally grateful for the _laissez-faire_ rules of modern courtship allowing him to do so whenever the urge arises.

It arises often.

She tastes sweetly of the cookie dough she’s snuck, and he can’t help himself–he snatches a cookie from the cooling rack and shoves the molten treat into his mouth.

“Hey!” Abbie cries, smacking his hand with her rubber spatula.

Ichabod laughs and kisses her again.


End file.
